


Requiem of the Sands

by SonicCeleste



Series: The Life of the Moon Guardian [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Also how No’a’s first song came about, Angst, Gen, The Attack on the Waking Sands, Writing songs in FFXIV is actually super fun and winding them into FFXIV plot is fun too, yaaaaay more angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-28 17:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21140231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonicCeleste/pseuds/SonicCeleste
Summary: No’a hadn’t realised entirely what he had signed up for by joining the Scions of the Seventh Dawn until the day he came back to the smell of blood.





	Requiem of the Sands

The past few months had all gone by so quickly. Deciding to become a proper adventurer was a spur of the moment decision, fuelled by boredom and the possibility of meeting other cute adventurers to have some fun with. Becoming a Bard was due to his genuine interest in the arts, but he hadn’t gotten around to composing anything because he was always gallivanting off elsewhere. When No’a discovered his Echo and subsequently joined the Scions, he interpreted it as a kind of part-time job - just go and help out whenever something needed hunting or primals needed slaying, and he was set.

Then the attack happened.

With Titan soundly defeated, Minfilia had asked No’a to come back to the Waking Sands. No’a was so high off of adrenaline and pride at killing another primal that he hadn’t even noticed that Tataru wasn’t at her desk. Casually strolling down the steps with a tune on his lips, his tail happily swishing and his wide-brimmed hempen hat bobbing up and down, he went to open the door.

The sheer smell of death on the other side made No’a’s hair stand on end and his tail bristle. It was dark, but that meant nothing to a Keeper; he was able to see the numerous corpses throughout the hall and suddenly felt nauseous. What in the seven hells had happened while he was away?

His mind started to race with questions of who, what, and why, before his gaze was fixed on a Roegadyn woman sprawled against the wall opposite. No’a recognised her - he hadn’t gotten around to asking her name, something he regretted terribly now. She had a kind temperament despite her rough, scarred appearance and took his flirty remarks in her stride, gently but firmly rebuffing him every time. Now, though... Her eyes were still open, sheer terror on her face, various drying shades of red on her face and body with a telltale sign of her fate in the middle of her chest - No’a couldn’t physically bring himself to focus enough to figure out what weapon had been used. He couldn’t focus at all, really. His lifetime of nocturnal hunting for his mother’s tribe and then for himself had him under the impression that he was fine seeing blood and dead bodies, but this... he knew these people. They weren’t animals, or beast tribes, or bad people in the slightest. This was different.

He hated the smell of their blood, even though it smelt no different.

After reaching out and closing the Roe woman’s eyes, No’a headed straight for The Solar, pulling his hat over his eyes to avoid seeing any more slaughtered Scions while being careful where he stepped, not wanting to trip. He found Noraxia, that poor sylph, on the floor of the room, nearing death but still so glad to see him. It made his chest tighten to the point of near pain. No’a’s Echo kicked in and he received a vision of what had happened, how the Garleans had torn through the Waking Sands, how Minfilia had been captured, how Noraxia had sacrificed herself... all because of him. All because he was slaying the Primals threatening the people of Eorzea. He was doing a good thing!

... Wasn’t he?

The journey to the church seemed to stretch overlong, the Miqo’te finding each step away from his comrades a desperate struggle. His eyes still refused to focus, the path below him blurred as he thought and regretted. Knowing that he was the reason so many had perished, simply by association... if he knew this would have happened, he would’ve spent more time socialising with them, getting to know them as real comrades in arms, instead of flirting with the latest pretty stranger for a free drink at the tavern. Or maybe it was for the best; that his indifference to those around him had been a blessing in disguise.

Gods, a drink sounded good right now. A good, lonely hunt, too. Anything to get the vision of the darkness and the bodies out of his mind.

No’a stepped into the church building, the Father turning and instantly looking at him with a gaze of sympathy, of pity.

_ ‘If only he knew what you’d done,’ _ a voice in No’a’s mind muttered darkly. No’a had to agree with it

When the Father asked him what was wrong, a part of the Miqo’te wanted to break down on the church floor right there at the simple gesture of concern. Tears pricked at his eyes as he looked down, blinking them away under the wide-brimmed security of his hat. He couldn’t cry. He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to feel such emotion when he had caused so much suffering to people that he had deemed too unimportant to bother with. Instead, he took a deep breath and finally looked up, his face now unreadable and his eyes a dull, dark amber.

“The wild roses are dead, Father, and I know not what to do,” was his monotonous reply.

The week after seeking sanctuary at the church felt empty. No’a felt empty. The errands politely asked of him by Marques got him out and about, but aside from a few blunt words or a simple nod, it was akin to looking after a mammet. Marques couldn’t even begin to understand what was going on through the young man’s head, but he had been tasked by the Father with aiding No’a, and he was going to do just that.

He found the Miqo’te behind the church, telltale hat covering his face as he sat on the dusty ground, silent. The sun had been particularly bright today, so it was no wonder the Keeper had decided to be in the shadiest, most isolated patch of land around.

Especially considering he had just helped bury his comrades.

The man wordlessly walked up to No’a and sat next to him. He knew better than to assume No’a would say anything or even acknowledge his presence, but he had to try.

“No’a... What did you do before you became an adventurer?”

Marques waited patiently, hoping for any kind of reaction. This day had been all about the Scions - and perhaps rightfully so - but No’a was in no fit state of mind to keep thinking about them. He needed to think about something else, before the burden of guilt became too much to bear. Slowly, the hat’s brim rose, and No’a looked at Marques with that same empty gaze he’d had all week.

“Hunted,” he mumbled quietly.

Marques nodded, smiling softly. “That makes sense. Your tribe - the Katri tribe, I assume - they hunt in the Black Shroud, correct? When was the last time you saw them?”

“Don’t remember. The men leave quickly.”

The white-haired man nodded again, more sympathetically this time. He needed a change in topic and so looked at No’a for anything noteworthy. His hat, his face tattoos, his bow with the instruments... Ah, that would do nicely.

“How long have you been playing the flute?”

No’a blinked in surprise, then looked away, looking almost... ashamed. “Not for long. Haven’t tried writing anything yet, either.”

The man could tell - the instrument looked almost brand new.

“If I may,” Marques started softly, “I believe it could help you to play. As I understand it, Bards use their emotions and experiences to compose their music. I think that pouring your bottled emotions into something creative could help you in this... process you’re going through. Only if you wish to, of course.”

No’a nodded slowly, but gave little indication otherwise that the conversation would continue. That was fair enough, Marques supposed, and he stood up to return inside the church.

“Marques?”

He looked down at the Miqo’te - he never noticed how small he was until now, even with his abnormally large hat. “Yes?”

“Do you think... do you think if I made a song for them, they’d forgive me?”

Marques shook his head. “There’s nothing they need to forgive you for, No’a. What happened wasn’t your fault.” He paused. “... However, it would be a lovely way of remembering them.”

No’a slowly nodded again, and Marques took that as his cue to leave. It was a short time after he had walked back into the church building that he heard the unsteady notes of a flute, slowly getting more confident until finally, bells later, a sombre melody filled the now night air. A requiem, Marques concluded, and a most beautiful one at that.

When No’a walked in moments later, tear stains down his cheeks and a newfound spark of determination lighting up his eyes once again, Marques couldn’t be happier. The wild roses would grow again, and those that wilted would be remembered forever in song. No’a would make sure of it. He had to redeem himself.

**Author's Note:**

> The next story’s gonna be a happy one I promise, lol


End file.
